


Brannigan's Wake

by PrettyMessedUpSituation (MarcelinesNightosphere)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Ketch/Mary Winchester, Pining, Suggestions of Ketch pining after Dean, Surveillance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarcelinesNightosphere/pseuds/PrettyMessedUpSituation
Summary: Going through the surveillance audio from the bunker, the British Men of Letters find some amusing information. Without cluing him in, the subordinates go ahead and let Ketch listen to their findings and read their transcripts.Alternatively titled: An Asshole's Day Gets Ruined.





	Brannigan's Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](http://prettymessedupsituation.tumblr.com/post/159693413673/ibelieveinthelittletreetopper). 
> 
> Rebloggable version [here](http://prettymessedupsituation.tumblr.com/post/159733081283/brannigans-wake). 
> 
> *Voyeurism is audible??? idk if that matters to you but it might.

Ketch briskly entered the room, breaking the concentration of three operatives busily typing notes. Their eyes focused onto their computer screens, avoiding any chance that they might actually have to look at his petulant face. He cleared his throat. 

“Anything back on the audio from the Men of Letters bunker?”

One of the three nameless transcribers kicked another’s foot with her toe, but she didn’t break contact with her screen. Both the kicker and the kickee tried their best to keep a straight face.  Actually, they were not nameless at all. Jacqui held a Masters of Computer Science and Philosophy with a Bachelor’s degree in Theology; Abigail earned her Doctor of Divinity at Oxford; Bret was the outcast, earning his Masters of Technology at Cambridge. What a loser.  

“A _ hem _ .” Ketch cleared his throat a little louder, dramatically and with an air that was very Shatner-esque. 

Bret was, with only sharp glances between the three, voted the one that would have to speak with him. He removed the cup of one headphone and slid it behind his ear so he could hear whatever his lordship had to say. 

“Sir?” 

“Have any of you been able to detail anything of import from the audio recordings?”

“Of...of import, sir?”

“Yes!” Ketch bellowed. 

“Perhaps,” Bret began, carefully choosing his words, “you would like to read the transcript for yourself, sir. See if anything of import jumps out or if it’s just mindless drabble.” He glanced at Jacqui and Abigail who were struggling to keep straight faces. “Each of us have taken a room in the bunker for a week’s worth of audio transcript and can send you a summary of findings in an official report, or, if you wish, you may read our transcript or listen to the recordings yourself. Sir.” 

Ketch paused. This was _their_ job. His time is precious and there’s a reason he had three subordinates on this. Unfortunately, he was curious. “You - brown-haired one…”

“Abigail,” she corrected. And rightfully so. Some more uncouth persons might have punched him in his boorish face. 

“Yes. Abigail. Coffee. Blonde one - dry cleaning. And you,” he said, pointing to Bret, “find me a pastry or something at least somewhat edible.”

The three rose from their seats, pushed in their chairs, and hit the Home button on their computers so Ketch could start their transcripts from the beginning. The women stepped outside. Bret began to follow, but he stopped and turned to face Ketch.

“And does Sir prefer any  _ special _ type of pastry?”

Ketch was taken aback by the indignation in his tone. “No. Anything sweet will do.”

Bret did an about-face and headed out to join his colleagues, a knowing grin spreading across his face.

 

Ketch settled into the chair of the blonde one, known to everyone but him apparently as Jacqui, the Oxford grad, who had been assigned the kitchen’s surveillance tape. He picked up her headphones and awkwardly placed them on his head, trying to figure out how to extend them to the right size. Without paying attention to the notes scribbled in a notebook next to the mouse, he pushed it aside and totally missed the hilarious comic and subsequent conversation between the three workers discussing the wonderful tidbits of information they had heard. 

If only he had seen it. 

If only he had known what he was going to hear. 

Maybe he would have been nicer. 

But he wasn’t. Because he’s an ass. And because he’s an ass, we can enjoy the beauty of what was caught on those bunker tapes, as well as the three BMoL members that were treated poorly and blessed to be assigned to this menial task that is below their pay grade. 

Ketch hit play, and read the transcript along with what was playing in his ears. It took him precisely three minutes and sixteen seconds to find himself horrified.  
  


> **10:50PM, KITCHEN OF THE MEN OF LETTERS BUNKER IN LEBANON, KS, USA**
> 
> [ _ multiple sets of footsteps _ ] 
> 
> SW:  I’m beat. 
> 
> [ _ refrigerator door opens, glass clinks, bottle top opens _ ]
> 
> DW:  Me too. I need a shower.
> 
> SW:  I think all of us do. But yeah, you definitely need one. 
> 
> C:    I don’t mean to imply anything untoward, but sitting behind you on the way home was...an unfortunate experience.
> 
> DW:  Shut up.
> 
> [ _large retreating_ _footsteps_ ]
> 
> SW:  I’m going to get cleaned up too. Don’t stay up too late, you two. 
> 
> [ _ larger retreating footsteps _ ]
> 
> [ _ silence _ ]    
>  [ _ throat clearing _ ]    
>  [ _ refrigerator opens, glass clinks, bottle top opens _ ]    
>  [ _ chair moves _ ]
> 
> MW: Let’s not...ever…
> 
> C:    No. Unless you need to…
> 
> MW: NO! No. No. 
> 
> C:    Can I ask...were there feelings involved? 
> 
> MW: [ _ scoffs _ ] I haven’t been..in...over two decades? Mistakes were made.
> 
> C:    [ _ chuckles _ ] 
> 
> MW: What?
> 
> C:    Nothing. [ _ pause _ ] I suppose you are entitled to having some recreational activities, but, and I'm not judging, why him? 
> 
> MW:  You are too judging. What’s with the questions?
> 
> C:     I’m sorry. It’s not my place. I just worry about Dean and Sam, so in looking out for them, I just want to assure that your loyalties aren’t waning. 
> 
> MW:  Hmm.
> 
> C:     I know that sounds harsh, but i hope you can understand that my concerns come from a good place. 
> 
> MW:  [ _ sighs _ ] I do, Cas. I really do. I appreciate that you’ve looked after the boys. And I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt them - 
> 
> C:     Have you heard of the term  _ sleeping with the enemy _ ? 
> 
> MW:  I think that’s a Julia Roberts movie. I watched it on TNT in a motel. 
> 
> C:    [ _ pause _ ] Okay, true. But the term. That applies to this situation, correct?
> 
> MW:  I don’t think they’re the enemy. 
> 
> C:    Are you sure? They’re very authoritarian and out of touch. And they’ve been extremely removed from the situation here until recently, which seems odd. I mean, there have been at least two apocalypses. The fact that they’re showing up now is a little suspect. 
> 
> MW:  Maybe I’m just trying to get in good with them. Did you think of that? 
> 
> C:     As in using him? Getting close for informational purposes?
> 
> MW:  Exactly. And Jesus, Cas, you should have seen this guy. 
> 
> C:     Mary, I don’t think I want to imagine it. 
> 
> MW:  I have to hear things I’d rather not hear through the ductwork so you can picture this. Have you seen  _ Futurama _ ? 
> 
> C:    Yes, I have. I binged it last year. It was quite enjoyable and packed with amazing references from popular culture. Though the dog episode…
> 
> MW:  Awww, the dog episode. That’s a hard one. Anyway, you know the captain that likes the one-eyed girl?
> 
> C:    Yes. He is awful. 
> 
> MW: So get this. Ketch is sitting in bed like...what’s his name?
> 
> C:    Brannigan.
> 
> MW: [snaps] Yes! That’s right. Zapp Brannigan. Ketch is in bed looking like Zapp Brannigan...I could barely keep a straight face. It was awful. And his style - 
> 
>   
>    
> 

Ketch hit pause and took off the headphones. _For fuck sake_. His subordinates knew he had slept with Mary Winchester. And this image portrayed would do nothing but undermine his authority. He moved to Abigail’s desk. She had Dean’s room. He needed a break before he could go back and continue the intense embarrassing experience of reading Jaqui’s transcript. Hearing the words was bad enough, but seeing them, knowing someone actually typed them out, made it so much worse. 

> **10:58PM, BEDROOM OF DEAN WINCHESTER**
> 
> [ _ muffled shuffling _ ]
> 
> [ _ door closing _ ]
> 
> DW:  _ [large yawn, accompanied by assumed stretching _ ] _Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck._ I feel gross. 
> 
> _ [shuffling] _
> 
> _ [clothes dropping to the ground] _
> 
> Ugh. That’s gonna need a lot of bleach. 
> 
> _ [more clothes drop to the ground] _
> 
> And that’s going directly in the garbage. 
> 
> _ [bathroom door shuts] [muffled shower] _
> 
>  

Ketch made a sour face. Disgusting hunter. So gross. So dirty.

>  
> 
> [ _ distant sounds of shower singing, including renditions of “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC and “Pocketful of Sunshine” by Natasha Beddingfield _ ]
> 
>  
> 
> _ [door opens and closes] [clothing rustles]  _
> 
> _ [bed springs squeak as someone settles onto the bed] _
> 
> _ [sigh] _
> 
> _ [shower turns off] [bathroom door opens] [rustling of a towel] _
> 
> DW: Hey, you…
> 
> _ [humming and sounds of kissing]  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ NOTE: After collaborating with other operatives, no other voices were heard entering the bunker prior to timestamp from KITCHEN recording. _

  
  
  


“Well, at least this is interesting,” Ketch said, intrigued. “Who is in the bunker?” he asked aloud, a touch of jealousy in his voice. “Who in the hell….” He moved to Bret’s workspace to listen to the next tape, hopefully finding a clue as to who this mystery person was. 

 

> **10:50PM, WAR ROOM, MEN OF LETTERS BUNKER, LEBANON, KS, USA**
> 
>  
> 
> _ [muffled noises] _
> 
>  
> 
> _ [muffled voices] _
> 
>  
> 
> MW  _ [distantly, no more than a whisper] _ : Yes! That’s right. Zapp Brannigan. 

  
  


“Fucking hell,” Ketch said, taking off the headphones and letting his head hang for a moment. Dean was fucking someone. But he wasn’t jealous. That would be silly. And gay. And their dynamic was  _ not at all _ gay. Mary was using him. But he was using _ her  _ too, so who was really being screwed? Not him. Or was he…?

_ Who the hell is Zapp Brannigan?  _ he thought.

A note in the transcript told him nothing else was heard until 3am on the war room tape. He fast-forwarded until he reached the proper time stamp. 

 

> _ [shuffling] _
> 
> DW:   _[laughing, almost properly described as a giggle]_
> 
> _ [banging] _
> 
> _ [rhythmic thumping] _
> 
> _ [moaning] _
> 
> DW:  Shhhh....
> 
> [unidentifiable voice, whispering]:    I'm - 
> 
> DW:  Oh fuck, oh shit....
> 
>  

"Well." Ketch swallowed hard. _That was certainly something audible_ , he thought. The mouse cursor hovered over the pause button, but he continued to let it play.

 

> _ [moaning] _
> 
> DW: [chuckle] Should I clean this up now, or leave it til morning? What?! Don't look at me like that. I'll get a towel.
> 
>  

Ketch was wide-eyed. What had he done placing surveillance in the bunker? He might as well have been trying to make a porno had he decided to place cameras instead of bugs. Still reeling from what he just heard on the war room tape, he jumped back to the kitchen audio.

 

> MW: - his style was...I know I’ve only been with a few guys and it’s been a long time, but it was...how can I explain it? Ah! A weird combination of 80s porn star trying too hard and Monty Python’s explanation of British sex. 
> 
> C: [ _ unexpected, booming laugh _ ] That...is very specific. And disturbing.
> 
>  

"Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no."

 

> ...he put frosting on his nipples and had me lick it off?
> 
> C:  [explodes into laughter]

 

“My god,” Ketch said, turning it off. “What a bitch.”

He stared at Abigail’s desk. Curiosity got the best of him. 

 

> **11:23PM, DEAN WINCHESTER’S BEDROOM**
> 
>  
> 
> DW:  _ [moaning] [heavy breathing] _
> 
>  

Ketch started sweating in a very heterosexual way. 

>  
> 
> DW:  _ [heavy breathing turns to panting] [intermittent moaning] _
> 
>  

Ketch closed his eyes, feeling something caught in his throat. Was it weird that the son sounded oddly like the mother? He pushed that thought from his head as the moaning continued, breaths getting heavier and faster through the headphones. It felt invasive and raw to listen to. He looked around the room, making sure no one could see him or perhaps hear what he was listening to, despite the headphones definitely being plugged in. He checked twice to make sure. He felt his pants grow uncomfortably tight - 

 

> DW:  _ Fuck, Cas... _
> 
> C:    _ Dean... _

 

Ketch threw off the headphones. “The angel?! What is wrong with these Americans?!” he yelled. He stood up in a huff, straightened himself, and stormed out into the kitchenette to get some coffee since none of those nameless brats had returned. 

But the nameless brats had. 

A note on the table had  _ Mr. Ketch  _ written on it. 

_ Your requested items are on your desk, sir.  _

Red-faced and confused as to what he’d just listened to and read, Ketch walked into his office and was greeted by a black coffee, his dry cleaning, and a cake in the center of his desk.

 


End file.
